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User blog:The Augster at NK/Earth: An SAS Story
TWO YEARS LATER Not a single day goes by where I am not reminded of the destruction of the T.F.V. Medea. Every little thing I've done for the past two years here at West Point reminds me somehow of the most confusing day of my life. I remember getting shot, escaping the ship, seeing my insane uncle, the dropship escaping, and then blacking out. Apparently several crew members suddenly lost it and started shooting at the energy core of the ship until it overloaded and exploded. Anyone still on the ship was vaporized instantly. There were almost 250 deaths--almost a third of the Medea's 800 crew members. Among the fallen were SAS soldiers Stewart Getty and Mortimer Collins, the two last known surviving (and sane) members of SAS team 6. They just so happened to have children of their own. Stewart's last living son was his oldest; now 29-year-old Engineer Corporal Patrick Getty. Patrick had an intenste fondness for gun modification and engineering, so he was moved to the SAS's engineering program. I don't really know him, but Terry does, and he says he's a lot nicer than his late father. Mortimer left behind A.J. Collins (not sure what the A and J stand for). He's also a unique SAS soldier--a member of the Assassin program, and only 24 years old. I sit with him at the mess hall, and aside from being unusually eccentric, he's a pretty good person. Nothing at all like Terry (although they'd probably be good friends) however. It was luchtime when I finished my drill runs in the morning (got a new record: 2 miles in 10 minutes), and I hoped it would be something good. The past three days have all been Broccoli and something equally disgusting to accompany it. Today was enchilada day. Shit. I sighed as I grabbed my luch and sat down next to my friends. Along with AJ, Augie, Terry, some young woman named Audrey, and a couple of other people I still don't know or care about sat at my table. I tried to choke down the enchiladas but decided the potatoes and carrots would be enough for me. As I was eating, a voice sounded over the intercom. "Would SAS Soldiers Maria Levesque, Augustus Lowell, Terrence Dawsom, Andrew Collins, and Patrick Getty Please report to the West Point Administration? Over." Terry shouted, "Hey PAT! Come one!" and we headed for the office of Ronald K. Trump, President of the Trans-Federation Military Acedemy and West Point Spaceport Base. What a mouthful this place is. . . . I've known AJ and Patrick ever since I arrived here at West Point. I feel really bad for them. They both had lost both of their parents, and Patrick had siblings who died, too. In a zombie apocalypse, you usually don't see middle-aged guys breaking down, but at the military funeral for Stewart Getty and Mortimer Collins, they never dried their tears. I felt the same way when I learned of my older sister's death. It was a crisp early March day, back in 3114, when I was just 16. My sister was a standard field medic in the Trans-Fed Marine Corps., and she was at a compound defending a key location on the planet Kappalanga. I was at my home in Indianapolis, watching harrowing news reels of a terrifying new development in the zombie crisis... The entire base was eliminated when Combot hacked into the Jolt Ship and destroyed the entire planet, killing hundreds of millions of people at once. I know what it feels like to have someone taken away from you without ever seeing it. I know what it feels like to attend a funeral followed by no burial, being haunted by the fact that there was no body left to bury... I decided it would be best not to dwell on the distant past as we arrived at President Trump's office. I was told by my that that there was a man a millenium ago once known a Donald Trump. I've seen pictures of Trump, and he looks really similar to his present day doppelganger...weird. Ronald K. Trump had short golden-blonde hair, pale skin, a black suit, and was fairly aged. Standing beside him was Fleet Admiral Anforth. I knew what he was going to tell us, and I hoped it wasn't going to end in us escaping West Point as it blew up... We took a seat as Trump told us the same thing General Halentov told us. . . . When I saw three SAS soldiers leaving Admiral Anforth's ship, I hadn't thought of us becoming an elite team. As I got to know them, I learned their stories. They were like pretty much everyone in the army; someone in their immediate family was dead. They were one of about two dozen transfers to the T.F.V. Medea. Transfers marked for death, and yet the got out alive. But my father didn't. I've always been the bravest of my two brothers, but I've never been as emotionally damaged as when my father, my last piece of hope that my family has a chance, was killed, and with no body left to bury. Every day, I wonder if I should have done what my brothers did. Every day, I think of picking up my CM 205 and joining the rest of my family. I almost did, but Terry and Augster, my new friends, my new family, stopped me. They convinced me that there was still hope for humanity, that by killing myself I wouldn't have the chance to save more families from being torn apart senselessly. My train of thought was broken by Trump speaking. "Young cadets, your two years of training are soon going to come full-circle. I think it's time we rehashed General Halentov's plan, only now I believe it makes a lick of sense. I'm sure you all know each other well, and that's extremely important, because I want to revive the SAS Team 6.1 initiative." We all looked at each other; I didn't think we were ready, even if we were all pretty good on our own. We haven't had much team training, so forming an elite team like this seemed silly to me... Trump continued. "As an elite SAS team, you're going to design your own ship and of course do a few months of teamwork exercises to insure you're ready for field bettles. Of course, I'll get you started with a small loan of a million dollars, which should help in an emergency. We don't have a major abjective for you folks yet, but we're working on it." Shit. . . . Ever since my father died, I've almost lost all motivation to keep on going...whatever keeps me from shooting myself is beyond me. My assassain training doesn't seem very useful in my eyes, seeing as how we're fighting a war against mindless monsters with no real strategy, but it's still pretty fun to learn how to stab things with my kni . . . The homie AJ asked me for a pencil today. I responded with, "The fuck do you need a pencil for?" Seriously, pencils are a thing of the past; why do people fuckin' use them? It's stupid! I can't get too hard on AJ. His parents are dead, his sibling is dead, his friends are dead, and if you think about it, he's dead too. Everybody's dead on the inside. 'Specially me. So the president of West Point, this hick white trash folk named Ronald Trump gave us a small loan of a million dollars and told us we're a team. So now we have to design a ship and leanrn teamwork lessons. Oh, that sounds like peaches and fuckin' cream man, learning TEAMWORK! Well, the shipbuilding part sounds pretty dope, so I guess Out of batteries. Power terminated. "SHIT!" Terry shouted. "I just fixed this piece of dong!" Rick watched intently until Combot interrupted the recordings. "Richard, while there's absolutely nothing I enjoy more than sitting on my virtual ass and pranking an SAS trooper I don't care about, I think we have a million better things to endeavor. For example, we could be advancing our perfection. Is Dawson conscious?" Richard replied, "Yeah, she's in the cryo chambers." Combot's voice thundered, "Finally. I love it when a plan comes together..." Category:Blog posts